


Sillë

by Arnediad



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Bad Humor, M/M, Maglor's sassiness is an art piece in progress, Some politics, That's not new, angry sons of feanor, bathing in more nuance, but some nsfw aspects, electral relationships, i is a big sappy snowflake, inspired fic, look I just like writing them, mature tag is more to be safe, more old couple things, no I don't have a problem @_@, still obnoxious but perhaps some plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:16:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28828779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnediad/pseuds/Arnediad
Summary: A visit to Himring, some brothers, some politics, some arguments, and some love.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24





	Sillë

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Delicate Pleasures](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6693673) by [TheLionInMyBed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionInMyBed/pseuds/TheLionInMyBed). 



> **On Inspiration:** This work likely has several inspirations, I've read various versions of _'Fingon visits Maedhros in Himring'_ scene building. However, I chose _'Delicate Pleasures'_ because it was the first one I ever read, and TheLionInMyBed is one of my favorite Russingon writers. These are not identical fics in any specific form, but credit where credit is due, and to the author, thank you. 
> 
> I'm not entirely sure why I went crazy with description in some places here ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Himring was not without its qualities. 

Despite the fact that it was a fortress, the nature of its construction made it appear more of a very large, impenetrable keep. It boasted no barbican or moat, though it had some semblance of a wall that merged more with the bedrock of the hill it stood upon. Tall enough were the hills about that area of Beleriand that there was really no need for greater fortification, but a statement of grandeur it did not make. 

It was nothing like Hithlum, that much was certain, but it held its own towering and formidable grace in its solidarity and impression of military functionality. Maedhros ran a very tight ship; there was need to, with brothers such as he had, and distraction in the form of luxury was something that the Sons of Fëanor could not afford, especially in such times. The cold winds that blew from hilltop to hilltop were but a reminder of the locale; of the frigid land in which such a place was made into some semblance of a home...even if it was a poor imitation of a home. 

Fingon had been only once before. 

Once...and only once, after Maedhros had recovered from Thangorodrim and deemed it wise to move himself away from Hithlum. This was something, in truth, that Fingon resented, but also acknowledged was likely necessary. And he had his own fiefdom to look after, once his _atar_ was crowned. Lóminórë was greener than Himring, but did not come without its responsibilities and duties, and he was never without something to do. He had come to love it in time, both the land and his people; if his love was not near to share in that bounty, he told himself it was a thing of political necessity. 

That and the fact that officially declaring his troth to Maedhros would have brought such a gargantuan amount of scandal between their houses down upon them he had not the heart to pursue the idea with any dedication. In Valinor, he had hoped for something different for them...even if Neylo had not been able to acknowledge their love at the time. They were not in Valinor however...they were in Middle Earth and at war, and war had no place for love and its need for close proximity. 

Officially, he was visiting for the purpose of diplomacy. Leading his horse up the single, steep-sloped rise of packed earth and stone, Fingon stared contemplatively at Himring’s gates before clicking his tongue to increase the pace just slightly. As a representative of his father, but as someone closer to the age of the Sons of Fëanor he was more likely to garner a positive reaction. Or, at the very least, a tolerant reaction. 

He’d sent a messenger ahead, perhaps a month prior, to announce his arrival, and he could only hope that such a warning would have given his hosts enough time to mentally prepare. Despite their distance from one another, tactical communication was needed between Hithlum and Himrig. No one was going to argue that Fëanor’s sons were an invaluable asset in battle, and peace was never ever-long. Maedhros was, of all his siblings, the most willing to assist when it came to ferrying information regarding enemy movements, but his station in Himring did not allow him to scout as much as he liked. 

It was snowing. 

In Valinor, it was somewhat difficult-at least at the time-to discern seasons. It was something they had been forced to learn and adjust to quickly. There was snow, of course, atop the peaks of the Pelóri and in the arctic regions, but one was rarely wont to venture there. And why bother? When most of Eldamar was warm and temperate and pleasant? 

_”I like the snow.”_

Fingon smiled at the memory; of a time long gone past when they’d made a small journey to the peaks...not directly, just enough to see them for the day. They’d been quite young, by his recollection; Mahtan had taken them there...when the houses were not quite so greatly at odds. He remembered thinking the glittering white caps atop the mountains reminded him of the eggshell color Anairë used to paint the clouds at her easel. Maedhros, of course, was immediately enamored of it, as he was wont to be enamored of all things new and different. The Maedhros of yore was ever-intoxicated with possibility. It made him reckless, but it also made him lively, and that vivacity was as much infectious as it was risky. 

_“Aia Findekáno, Fingolfion, Noldóran.”_

The Maedhros of now, however, was far more reserved. 

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the form of greeting, Fingon lifted a hand and was gratified when Maedhros’ eyes tightened in the way that indicated he was smiling on the inside. It was hard now, to draw a smile from the eldest son of Fëanor. He suspected much of it was due to Thangorodrim, but Neylo spoke of it so little, and he had found that pressing him for answers was to both of their detriments. 

_”Níqua!”_ he exclaimed, sliding from his horse even as the gates began to slowly grind open behind the tall, redheaded figure before them. 

Grasping the reins, he completed the rest of what had been a very long journey on foot. Maitimo was thinner, he observed critically, even as the subject of his thoughts continued to attempt to look fearsome even if he was failing miserably. It worried him, but he had long ago accepted that there was very little he could do about it. This too, regarding the elf before him, had changed. The Russandol he had known would never shirk a meal, but here he imagined it was difficult to work up an appetite. Game, from what he had seen, was scarce. 

“‘Tis always cold” was the somewhat muffled response behind a thick cloak. When Fingon was close enough, a gloved hand reached up to take the reins from him. Bidding him wait but a moment, Fingon quickly freed his rucksack from the saddle. With that done, he relinquished his steed, who was in turn handed over to an _astámo_ once they passed the gates, which closed swiftly behind them. “Surely you did not come here for warm winds and fair skies?” 

“Aye, Neylo,” Fingon said with mock-solemnity, playing along. “‘Tis a poor place for a holiday. I am sorely disappointed.” 

At this, Maedhros let out a short bark of a laugh and Fingon resisted the urge to glow with pleasure. 

“I would petition Kementári to change the wind and the skies” was the reply in what seemed to be a fit of dark humor. “But I do not think I am in her favor.” 

Beyond the gate was a small bailey, no wider than ten could stand shoulder to shoulder, and just as wide. Here, the flagstones were a dullish grey; though he suspected in fairer weather they would appear tan. In the low light of the evening it was hard to tell; the torches burning in their metal brackets offered little visual assistance, especially with the snow and wind picking up outside the walls. To the fore was the square building that made up the keep, and the vast majority of the fortress. This itself was tall, with an even taller flanking tower and a slightly smaller corner tower that was only a bit higher than the covered parapets and battlements. To the aft-though slightly diagonal-were the stables. It was to the first they went, though Fingon grasped Maedhros’ arm to indicate they pause before entering. 

“You have my favor” he said quietly. “I care not for Kementári.” 

Grey eyes grew hard. 

“Careful” was the bitter response. “You should not say things that you cannot rescind.” Fingon must have looked somewhat beleaguered, because cloak-covered shoulders slumped and he watched as the red-haired elf reached up to pull down the part that was covering most of his face. “It is good to see you, Finno.” 

Tired. 

Maedhros looked _tired_ , and he wanted to comment on it, wanted to ferry them somewhere private so they could forget, at least for the moment, the concerns they faced in order to focus on one another...but that would come later. For now, Fingon’s arrival would herald the inevitable meeting of brothers; though it was too late for a meal. It was common knowledge-though unspoken-that he had Neylo were One, but the affection they had for one another was soured in the presence of kin. The disapproval was palatable, and so they refrained from acknowledging it. It was not necessarily the bond of kinship but the glaring fact that both Maedhros and Fingon were the eldest father-sons of their ancestral line. Their decision to declare to one another left succession somewhat at a loose end and it was all very scandalous. 

_”Just think, brother”_ Curufin had once snarled while too heavy in the drink. _”If Fingolfin dies you’ll be **Queen Consort**._

That had been a brawl to sing ballads about. 

Fingon understood, to some degree, that his beloved had as much a duty to defend the honor of the crown-even if it was a crown he’d given over-as he did to defend his _own_ honor. He did not, however, particularly relish watching two people he cared for go for the throat because one of them had insulted him. The brothers had left Hithlum soon after, so it was a moot point, but there was still need to take care. 

Beyond the entryway to the bailey were three sets of stairs; two going left and right...down dimly lit hallways, and the center one sloping downwards. This one they took, and it continued briefly before opening into a great hall. Here, the tables were haphazardly placed, though perhaps not without order for those who resided. There was no throne. Indeed, there was no place for anyone of ‘higher status’ to sit. The tables themselves were simple oaken benches of no notable description. 

The space itself had three roaring fireplaces as tall as an elf could stand and just as wide. Before them were scattered furs; some assorted belongings and several musical instruments. To the rear of the hall was a small enclave with stacked crates that seemed to have been more than picked over for goods. Above it all were simple, cross-board chandeliers of-like the benches-no distinct design. The candles they sported were low, but the fires did more than enough to offset their lack of light...as did a few assorted wall torches. 

It was clearly an informal space...a family space. It brought to mind images of the communal nature of living in Valinor, even if it wasn’t always that way. Fingon and his brothers were far more spread out and he missed the closeness that clearly still existed in Himring. He had his subjects, of course, but it wasn’t the same as family. And he knew-to some degree-that such living was not so much something chosen but enforced, but it was still nostalgic. 

“ _Hethren Fingon”_.

Curufin, much like Maedhros, was hard to miss. 

Unlike Maedhros, however, it was intentional and not merely due to presence. As Fëanor’s favored son, he had the air about him that some often do when given perhaps more than they ought to have received. Much like Fëanor, Curufin was dark-haired and of a somewhat knife-sharp bearing...emanating a fey coldness than Fingon had never truly been comfortable with. There was too much judgement in his gaze. Even sprawled out in front of the fire next to Celegorm, who appeared to be whittling, he carried himself with an alertness that suggested he never took a moment to breathe...or perhaps to think, before speaking. 

_”Rendo”_ Fingon replied, nodding even as footsteps indicated the approach of Amrod and Amras. 

The youngest brothers were, for the most part, cordial. Fingon imagined it was difficult to be more than that with Curufin watching them like a hawk, but they offered their greetings before stepping back so Maglor could sail through and kiss his cheeks before settling somewhat off to the side, his harp slung about his hip. Of all the brothers, Maglor appeared to have changed the least, but it was hard to tell, often, exactly how he fared at any given time. Moryo was less reserved than the twins but more reserved than Maglor. He offered few pleasantries but did not ultimately seem bothered by him like Curufin and Celegorm often did. An attendant came ‘round to offer drinks but did not linger, and eventually Maedhros gestured for Fingon to join him at a bench, to which he acquiesced. He offered food, which Fingon refused, more out of the knowledge that there was clearly nothing to spare than a lack of hunger. 

“So, how fares our dear cousin?” Celegorm remarked idly, watching the fire with eyes that were clearly elsewhere. “And what news, from Hithlum?” 

“Yes,” Curufin said dryly. “Tell us how our dear Uncle is faring with his so _justly_ earned status.” When Maedhros made a sound of irritation, a fierce grin followed. “Ah, forgive me, cousin. You see, how you fare is of so little concern to me, as we are barely surviving at all.” 

“-Don’t” Fingon snapped, perhaps a bit harsher than usual as Maedhros made as if to rise. 

“Finno is a guest” was the somewhat indignant comment regardless. “And-”

“-And grateful” the aforementioned individual said loudly. “For your hospitality, as circumstances between us could be far worse.” Maitimo sent him an aggrieved look, which he ignored in favor of continuing. “I am well, thank you. My father sends his greetings, and his regret that he could not visit you personally.” 

“That is well” Maglor muttered darkly. “He would not be well-received.” 

“Regardless,” Fingon continued, now feeling really quite weary. “He requests more news regarding enemy movement in your lands.” 

_”More news?!”_ Celegorm demanded. “More news?! With what little resource we have already?!” 

“In your last report you indicated orc movement to the west” Fingon replied, pushing down his hood and shaking out his braids. “You did not follow up regarding that movement.” 

“There wasn’t any” Maedhros replied, as Celegorm looked rather like he might explode. “And the consequences of failing to provide such a report fall to me and no one else.” Making a helpless gesture, Neylo looked apologetically at Fingon before continuing. “Celegorm is right, we are stretched thin, though not incapable of defense. Our scouts can only go so far without risking themselves, especially in this season. Whatever movement we see we follow, but once it reaches Anfauglith, goes West to Dorthonion, South beyond Thargelion, or East beyond Mount Rerir, there is little we can do. Even that itself is a vast expanse of land to patrol. We have men in our employ but not gold to supply them in great numbers.” An uncertain glance at his brothers and Maitimo pressed on. “If we are to run more thorough and successful scouting missions we would beg-”

“- _Nothing_ ” Curufin growled. “We beg _nothing_.” 

“-We would _request_ more support” Maedhros finished stiffly. 

“Because that’s what we need” Kurvo snapped, seemingly close to spitting. “Another reason to _lean_ on a King who begot his crown not through right but through-”

“-It _was_ through right!” Maedhros shot back. “And if not through right then through _rightness_!” 

“You could have given it to any one of us!” was the retort. _”Any_ of us would have jumped at the chance-” 

“-At the chance to dominate?!” Maedhros shouted. “At the chance to _fail_ , as our father did?! And you _know_ he did, you cannot deny that he did! What form of King would any of us be?! Who would trust us?!” 

“I would trust you” Fingon said automatically, perhaps knee-jerk and absolutely not at the right time. 

Having opened his mouth, presumably to shout back, Curufin closed it before shooting Fingon a look that was somewhere between pity and loathing. 

“It is always nice,” Maglor said pleasantly, from his perch atop a table. “To know that one of Fingolfin’s sons is as crazy as we are.” 

Maedhros looked-abruptly-somewhere between shouting some more and laughing hysterically. Moryo appeared to be on his fourth mug of mead and not capable of attending to the conversation at all. Amrod and Amras appeared to be trying to melt into the flagstones and Fingon really could not blame them at all. With the tension diffused, the conversation hung in limbo for a moment before Fingon cleared his throat and continued. 

“With your request for supplies and aid in mind, I will go immediately to my father and see what he can do.” 

“You could stay a couple of days” Maedhros said, much more angrily than he clearly intended to. 

“‘Bit keen, aren’t you?” Celegorm muttered into his cup of mead before a flying chunk of bread-who threw it was impossible to tell-hit him square in the nose. 

“It’s a blizzard out there,” Maglor cut in sagely. “To travel in such weather would be foolish.” 

“Then I shall stay until the weather lets up” Fingon said calmly, trying valiantly not to flush. “I hope I won’t be an imposition.”

Moryo let out a sound that seemed to be something between a snort and a belch; Maedhros threw him a filthy look. 

“Too late for that” Caranthir muttered, and Fingon tried not to let the words hurt him. “But yes, yes, welcome.” 

The conversation veered into light politics from there on out, though it had to be redirected when it looked like Celegorm might start raging about Fingolfin again. In truth, it grieved Fingon that there was so much unresolved dissension between their houses. It had always somewhat been so, but upon their fateful decision to leave Valinor, it seemed to have only gotten worse. His father was a good ruler, but his gaze often did not extend to his brother’s children and Fingon resented that neglect because it only built resentment. All of the individuals before him were great warriors and craftsmen in their own like. Perhaps poorly tempered, yes, irascible, yes, but also _bored_ and without much purpose save their ill-fated pledge with no manner in which to fulfill it. 

“The _Edain_ have such entertaining ballads.” 

Fingon forced himself to be conversationally present, even if he was bone-tired...and in truth, wanted nothing more than Maedhros’ company and his alone. Curufin appeared to be in the midst of a tale. 

_”There once was a maid in a river-”_

-When it was clear that Curufin was going to dominate the conversation with his rough humor for quite a while, Fingon rose-albeit a bit unsteadily-from the table, and went to hunt for Maglor, who had retreated some time ago. Maedhros caught his sleeve as he passed and shot him an apologetic glance, to which he responded by briefly hooking their forefingers together in a private gesture of reassurance. Maglor was sat atop a chest in the alcove he had spotted earlier. He looked a right more sober than the rest, which he found somewhat reassuring, and when he approached he made room for him atop the crates. Here, the air felt a little more breathable and he felt less observed and cloistered.

“It must be difficult,” Maglor observed after a time, and Fingon did not miss the bitterness in his tone. Lifting a questioning brow at his companion, he listened as the minstrel went on. “To love someone who does not truly belong to you.”

Across the room, voices rose momentarily as Maedhros interjected with something calm but stern, and Fingon watched as the brothers settled under his guidance. 

“When I pledged myself to Maitimo it was with the knowledge that I would demand him attend to me and only me to my own detriment” Fingon remarked, watching with a wan smile as Maedhros threw back his head and roared with laughter at something Curufin had said. 

“You do not enter into courtship with Maedhros thinking you can keep him, you woo him knowing he belongs to everyone, his kin especially, and a friend may be kin in Maedhros’ eyes; ‘tis how he sees people. He would cut off his own hand for his brother.” Fingon laughs, a bit exasperatedly. “You either hate that or you do not, you either comprehend that you have a special place in his heart, or you do not.” Grinning, the son of the King of the Noldor winked at Maglor. “Thankfully, I am not jealous, and I would not wish Mae to be anyone other than who he is.” 

“Neylo is very jealous in love,” Maglor muttered.

Fingon laughed merrily.

“Yes, he is rather a hypocrite.” Finno looked mischievously at his brother in law. “But in that jealousy I am somewhat comforted.” When Maglor looked dubious he winked. “You see, Maitimo is only ever jealous of _me_.” A sigh and they watched an attendant came ‘round to check the torches in their sconces. “And he never takes it too far, he knows better.”

“Your father is King” Kanafinwë pointed out, leaning downwards to pick up his harp and strumming a few idle but achingly beautiful chords before settling into a simple melody based off of a ballad from their youth. “You could always command him to sit and stay.” Bending his head, Maglor closed his eyes as he wove himself a musical scale, swaying in tandem with the rhythm. “‘Tis not like we are hapless sheep in need of shepherding by our older brother.”

“I think Maedhros would disagree with you on that last part” Fingon remarked dryly, fingers tapping to the music atop a knee. “And the day I tell Maedhros to roll over and be a court trinket to be displayed and trot about like a stuffed pig is the day I lose him.” 

They were silent for a while; Fingon lost himself in the simplistic melody that the harp provided, closing his eyes as he did so. Even the brothers were settled under its musical thrall, and he had not the heart to disturb them, especially Maedhros, who looked like he might fall over dead from exhaustion at any minute. For a time, all was peaceful, and he sent a knowing look to Maglor, who smirked through the music. The ballad went on for a good half an hour before the last, dying notes petered out and the minstrel plucked idly at the strings while the hearths crackled. 

“He never did like being an object of admiration” Maglor muttered at length, putting the harp back down and taking a perhaps-too-hearty gulp of mead. 

“Maedhros does not like to be an object” Fingon corrected sleepily as Makalaurë coughed. “He is not a conquest nor is he a pretty thing to drag about on the arm and pat on the head.” 

“Who is patting me on the head?”

Cracking open one eye, Fingon smiled at Maedhros, who was leaning into the alcove with a somewhat churlish expression. 

“Only me” he replied cheekily. “And only if you are very, _very_ good.” 

“I am going to bed” Maglor groaned, getting up and slinging his harp onto his hip again. “Do attempt not to be cacophonous, none of us need reminding.” 

The grin that Neylo shot him as his brother staggered out of the hall was both a promise and a silent laugh. Someone was snoring next to the hearth, but Fingon could not see who it was; presumably it was Moryo, neither twin was in sight. Celegorm and Curufin appeared to still be talking, but neither seemed very invested. 

“Perhaps I ought to go to bed as well,” Fingon remarked. “I don’t think I can sit here another minute.” 

“Perhaps I should take you there.” Neylo’s voice was as suggestive as it was deceptively light. 

“Perhaps you should” Finno replied, raising a brow. “Is there a way out of here without being caught between-”

“-Yes” was the immediate response, and Maedhros grabbed his hand. 

The way out, as it turned out, was just beyond the alcove and to the right...through what appeared to be a small and unattended scullery. It would have remained rather immaculate if Maitimo hadn’t decided to kiss him next to a bowl of potatoes that was perched rather precariously on the edge of a counter. When they scattered, Fingon made to pick them up but, laughing, Neylo told him to leave it before dragging him out another side door. It was difficult, in the whirlwind of the moment, to track exactly where they were going, but it also hardly mattered to him. Wherever the guards were, they were not there...and down the narrow halls they went, stopping every so often for a fumble behind an armoire, in the shade of a battlement, with the snow screaming just beyond their ears. For once, he felt _young_ and alive, and he was desperate to live in a moment where he could just forget it all. 

Maedhros’ chambers were in the lower part of the flanking battlement. Indeed, they were just beyond the entrance; a set of small, circular chambers with very little to adorn them. There was a fire, of course, but it had long gone cold. Next to it was a weapons’ rack of sorts, it was hard to keep track of it considering the circumstances. The floors were thickly covered in furs, along with the bed...which was large and to the rear of the second chamber. Aside from that was a bureau that was clearly hand-made, a mirror to the left of the entryway and a battered Fëanorian flag stuck up on the wall in all its burnt glory. The door shut behind them, but the noise was negligible to their current focus. Fingon was walked into the space beyond the fire in a hail of kisses and it was difficult to think beyond that. There was the tell tale **_*thump*_** of Maedhros’ prosthetic hand being dropped, but little else. 

“Perhaps I ought to not let you be so mischievous” Fingon gasped even as a hand carded through his braids in a manner not at all fair, as a mouth found the hollow just beneath his ear and teased it with a searching tongue. “‘After all, it has been so long since we last saw one another.” 

“Do you test me?” Maedhros murmured, bumping their foreheads together even as he fought with the fabric of Fingon’s cloak one-handed.

Sobering, despite the atmosphere, Fingon grasped a familiar jaw while lifting his other hand to card through scarlet locks. 

“If ever I test your fealty with ultimatums” he murmured. “Then worthy of love I am not.” When Maedhros looked uncertain he shook his head. “Neylo, that’s not how the heart works and you know it.” _Neylo_ at least, had enough of a head on him to look chastised. “Sometimes I could strangle your _atar_ , my _hánatar_.” Stroking along a familiar jawline, he closed his eyes. “He taught you that there is a price to it...to all of it.” 

“What a terrible price.” 

The dull and hollow statement did not escape him, and Fingon left off all coddling for the moment to look into silvered eyes. The despair and regret that looked back at him seemed to howl in its emptiness. Maedhros swallowed, it was a visual thing, the act of it, and if his sclera were wet neither of them commented on it. 

“How” he finally continued hoarsely-his voice barely above a whisper. “How do you even love me?” 

Fingon wanted to have the right words to say at all times, but he didn’t. He didn’t, so when he lifted his hand to curl about the severed stump of Maedhros’ arm, it was with the knowledge that the gesture would mean more than words. If he could put feeling in a touch-in the kiss that followed-if he could put all of it in such a gesture, he would have...but he could not. Instead, he merely slid his fingers under the clasp of fabric that hid the appendage his beloved found abhorrent and undid it...piece by piece, iota by iota, until he could touch scarred tissue with his fingertips. With the other he worked at the lacings to the thick tunic Maitimo was wearing even as the older _ellon_ shivered with something he suspected was more than desire and broke the kiss to bury his face in his neck. 

“Like this” he said quietly, abandoning his task to cup the back of a head. 

_”...Like this.”_

Maedhros, he had discovered, did not make love like he made war. 

Such a truth should not, he supposed, shock him. An all-around gentler Maedhros he had known before the Kinslaying. Still, when they got his cloak off of him, when nimble fingers found their way beneath the clothes he was wearing to rid him of them, he could acknowledge that such softness-in some forms-was reserved only for him. And when that mouth left his to blaze a trail downwards...when Maitimo knelt to kiss the skin just above his navel only to dip his tongue lower before continuing to the junction between his thighs to take him into his mouth...he shivered both in ecstasy and a kind of deep, abiding affection. 

_”They say we were made in the stars.”_

Shuddering, his legs giving out in favor of embarrassing himself completely, Fingon slumped even as Maedhros rose to meet him halfway, to hook his good hand underneath his arm and drag him into a searing kiss that left him reeling. He returned the gesture with equal fervor, luxuriated in the feel of russet hair beneath his fingertips even as they made their way backwards towards the bed. Maitimo, he thought indignantly, was not undressed enough. 

_”I don’t think we’re from the stars.”_

It was _good_ to let go...occasionally. To feel something solid and heavy above him, in the cradle of hips...in lines of hardness and softness. Here, he had to help a bit. Had to get a hand up between them to aid Neylo in shucking off his boots, stockings, and breeches. Fingon was rather convinced he’d have left his shirt on if he didn’t complain about it, but he was fully undressed so it was only due course that they both should be. 

_”Perhaps the stars are within us.”_

A golden, multi-faceted hue; such pleasure. In the way they slowed down to lick into the soft cavern of a mouth; the manner in which it became suffused...like the veins of a river flooded with new rain until the surge of it spilled onto the banks into the forest beyond. By the time Maedhros deemed him in any way ready for preparation he thought he might burst. And...in minutes...drawn out minutes of flexing fingers...of pointed pleasure on the head of a pin until that _shock_ came and a mouth swallowed down his exclamation of rapture...until he felt the world might spin on the axis of his imminent spiral to completion. 

Oneness. 

This, too, Fingon had learned. There were different kinds of oneness, of course. This particular oneness, however, in the sharpness of a thrust, in the dance of bodies, in the lace of heavy inveiglement...thick over the tongue...it was different. Different in the manner in which Maedhros would gasp into the hollow of his throat, different in the way that was the multitude of scars under his fingertips when he grasped at a heaving back. Different in the manner in which his release seemed to blind him...seemed to come and grab him down to his very bones and suck him under a white tide as Maedhros stiffened, as he was flooded with warmth and the body above him became terribly and yet affectionately heavy as it slumped in exhausted bliss. 

_”Mayhap we make the stars...with one another.”_

For all their sorrows, there was peace, and that peace was within them; shared, but not bound. 

Maedhros moved when the blizzard picked up. More specifically, he groaned and flopped to the side and took Fingon with him. Out of breath and still somewhat in that glimmering, post-completion haze, he went willingly. It was only the hand in his hair that brought him even slightly back to reality, and when it did, he said possibly the most asinine and unrelated thing he could possibly think of. 

“I think your brothers hate me Neylo.” 

It seemed to take his partner more than a few minutes to register the comment. Glancing upwards, Fingon realized the Maedhros was halfway into unconsciousness. 

“They don’t hate you” was the drowsy response. “They hate what they have become.” Seeming to rouse himself a bit, Maedhros blinked rapidly before focusing. “I am sorry for the things they said to you.” 

Fingon shook his head. 

“I care little for what they say” he remarked, before pausing. “Or perhaps I do, and it hurts me, but I worry more for you...tending to this, never resting.” 

“I think rest would be too easy for me” was the exhausted response. “It would be more than I deserve.” 

Grimacing, Fingon reached up until he could grasp a stately nose and give it a gentle tug. Maedhros made a sound of discontent that ended in a huff of a laugh. 

“I don’t know when you became a Vala, Neylo, but I don’t like the way you’re running things.” 

“That should not surprise you at all” is the wickedly cheerful retort. “As a Vala I have a duty to make people miserable including myself.” 

It was really not at all a funny statement. To anyone else, it likely would have been disturbing, but when Fingon began to laugh he couldn’t stop, and when he couldn’t stop it was inevitable that Maitimo would join in. In the midst of a white-out...at the corners of the world, two voices laughed...but for a moment in time. And it was that laughter that warmed Fingon a week later when he rode out to meet his father. But warmer than that was the memory of waking to find Maedhros fast asleep far past the hour he would normally rise; arms and legs akimbo and a slack, mindless expression on his face. 

It is the moments of peace, of course, that one wishes for those they love the most.

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N:** my music preference for Russingon will always be Enya: Flora's Secret was a huge motivator here. if this felt a bit weird it's because it's been in my drafts for so long. 
> 
> Yes I keep coming out with these sort of side-dishy pieces. A year ago I made a promise to come out with a bunch of things. _"All at once. sOmE oF iT iS aLrEaDy dOnE"_ I believe were the words. I think I can safely say I am close to fufilling that promise :) Angbang piece still coming I'm just dragging it out because I am evil inside. after some deliberation I went with the silmarillion plotline of Amrod and Amras rather than the _'The Peoples of Middle-Earth'_ version, via The Shibboleth of Fëanor. I don't think either version is less authentic than the other, it's just the one I personally chose. 
> 
> I highly recommend all of TheLionInMyBed's fics. _all of them_ @_@ 
> 
> Thanks for reading 
> 
> **Translations:** [q]-Quenya [g]-Gnomish.  
>  **Sillë** - _[q]'like this'_  
>  **“Aia Findekáno, Fingolfion, Noldóran.”** -[q] _hail Fingon, son of Fingolfin, King of the Noldor._ This phrase a bit tricky because it somewhat could imply that Fingon is already King, but I think textually we known that he's not, merely the son of a king.  
>  **”Níqua!”** -[q] _'it is freezing!'_  
>  **astámo** -[q] _helper_ Quenya has no solid word for attendant as far as I can tell, and I was uncomfortable with terminology of 'servant' because the translations in Quenya [ _núro, mól_ ] feel too close to 'slave'. _Mól_ , does, quite literally, mean 'slave'.  
>  **Hethren** -[g] _'first cousin'_ , Curufin uses gnomish intentionally, possibly to be crass and doubly pointed.  
>  **Rendo** -[q]- _'cousin'_  
>  **atar** -[q] _'father'_  
>  **hánatar** -[q] _'uncle'_ fan made from _háno_ -brother _atar_ -father; brother-father.
> 
> *there were some spelling errors here that made even me blush. sorry about that.


End file.
